A Witching Hour
by Beyond the Pages
Summary: Anna's father has remarried, and Anna is continually seeing visions of her stepmother doing horrible things. Fearing that she's going mad, she ignores it, until something happens that cannot be ignored.
1. Prelude

_**Snow White**_

_Prelude_

Lord Falke leaned his head against the back of the carriage and sighed. He would soon be home to his wife, and soon he would have a son. He was overjoyed at just the thought. He disliked long trips away from home, but it was necessary to provide for his family, and the Duke had requested Lord Falke's presence at an important transaction; he couldn't have refused, even if he had wanted to.

"Whoa," Falke heard the coachman call out, and the Lord poked his head out the window, to see the carriage stopped at his front door. At last.

He leapt out without waiting for one of the servants to open the door for him and rushed inside. Usually his wife greeted him, but she was nowhere around. He stopped a maid hurrying past with a basin of water. "Where is my wife?" He asked.

"Oh, milord!" She exclaimed. "Thank the stars your here! The baby is on his way! I was just rushing to her room now. Come, and you may wait outside."

"My son?" He exclaimed excitedly – but also nervously. Birthing was dangerous. Again, he did not wait for a reply, or to follow the maid. He simply dashed off to his wife's chambers as fast as his feet could carry him, his cape fluttering behind him.

Finally reaching his wife's chambers, he hesitated. Men were not allowed inside for a birth. Serving maids rushed back and forth, and he heard his wife moaning on the other side. Lord Falke caught the arm of one of the maids about to enter. "Tell her that I await outside; that I am here for her, should she need anything," he ordered. The maid nodded and hurried inside.

"Milady, your husband is just outside," he heard the serving maid tell her. "There is nothing but good luck all around. Do not fret." He heard the reassuring words, but they did not comfort him. His wife had always been a little bit superstitious, but often things seemed to happen the way she believed they would. Once, he recalled, she had seen a crow land on an apple tree, and declared that something bad was to happen to the tree, or near the tree. A small boy had been playing under there last winter and a large drift of snow had fallen on him, suffocating and crushing him. His mother had been devastated, and Lord Falke had done what he could for the boy's family; they were faithful servants in his household. But since then he had been more attuned to his wife's superstitious inclinations.

"No, no, no!" He heard her scream. "It's not a boy! It's a girl, I know it is!" The women always would say at a birth that it was a boy, but from the beginning Lady Falke had declared that her child was a beautiful raven-haired daughter. She had described the babe once to her husband, in detail. He worried she was right; he did not know what would happen to either of them if the people thought his wife was a witch.

Screaming emanated from the room, and Lord Falke sat rigidly, waiting in horrific anticipation for the child to come, silently praying that he would have a healthy wife and a healthy babe – no matter the sex of the child.

A new sound was added to his wife's screams – a baby's cry. Lord Falke felt his heart life into the air, as free as a bird. He stood, waiting for one of the maids to tell him he had permission to enter and see his wife and child – or better yet, for the midwife to tell him.

An old crone opened the door, and beckoned him in. The midwife, thank the stars, was approving. It was a good sign.

Hurriedly, he rushed to his wife's side, and grabbed her hand. She was sitting up in bed, covered in a thick sheen of sweat, and panting heavily. She wore nothing but a shift, and it stuck to her limbs like flypaper. Her long black hair hung loose about her shoulders. Lord Falke kissed his wife's hand. "My Julianna," he murmured lovingly, and stroked her hand. She smiled wearily at him. He turned to the midwife. "Well?"

"The babe is a beautiful and healthy girl," she said. "And your wife is fine; she will recover, and may even bear another child. It was not as difficult as we had feared."

Lord Falke's relief was plain on his face. "Thank the stars," he murmured, and kissed his wife's hand. He turned to look at her. "What shall we call her, my dear?" He asked.

She thought for a moment. "What do _you_ want to call her?" She countered, giving him the choice.

"Julianna," he said, smiling.

"But that's my name, silly husband," she stroked his cheek and smiled playfully, like her old self. "How about, just 'Anna'?"

"Perfect," he replied, and kissed her mouth.

**b6 YEARS LATER.../b**

The child shrieked with delight, her cream gown flying past her as she ran from her pursuer, giggling the whole time.

"I'm going to get you, my dear!" Lady Falke teased, running after her daughter.

"No, Mama!" She screamed, and ran some more.

"Oh, yes!" And she grabbed the girl, tickling her until she was breathless with laughter.

When Julianna finally put her daughter down on the ground, she was laughing so hard that she had to sit down and catch her breath. Anna sat next to her mother and kissed her cheek. "I love you, Mama," she said, and snuggled against her mother.

But her mother didn't answer; she had this faraway look in her eyes that Anna had never seen before. "Mama?" She asked. "Mama!" She shook her mother, but it was if Lady Julianna Falke had turned to stone.

Suddenly and without warning, Julianna grabbed her daughter's hand and half-dragged her inside their house. "Mama, what's wrong!" Anna cried, terrified. "Mama!" She struggled against her mother's grip, but it was like iron.

Once inside the house, Julianna barked orders for the servants to fetch her husband, and bolt the doors. Anna stumbled after her mother, her wrist still caught in Lady Falke's vice-like grip.

Falke came rushing when he heard of his wife's panicked state. "What's wrong, beloved?" He asked, gently disentangling Anna from Julianna's hold. He picked the young girl up and held her in his arms. Anna leaned her head against his shoulder and watched her mother with frightened eyes.

"Give her to Nellie," Julianna ordered. "I must tell you something, Roger, and she mustn't hear it." Lord Falke set his daughter down on the ground, and her nursemaid, Nellie, took her hand, leading her from the room. The girl was confused and frightened, but she trusted these people; Papa would find out what was wrong and fix it.

As soon as Anna was out of the room, Julianna burst into great heaving sobs. She had been so controlled a moment before that it shocked Lord Falke, and he didn't know what to do at first. But then he wrapped her in his arms and comforted her. "There, there," he murmured reassuringly. "I'm sure whatever it is can be remedied. Now, tell me, what is the matter?"

"Roger," she whispered in a voice like a ghost, "Something terrible is going to happen."


	2. Chapter 1

I didn't even look up from my book when I heard the sound of footsteps enter the library. It was small, compared with those of other manors, but it was often empty. Though uncommon, it was not unheard of for someone besides me to spend time there – though of course, I spent the most time there.

"Lady Anna," a voice addressed me.

"Hm?" Still, I didn't look up.

"Your father wishes to speak to you about the meal the cooks are preparing for the banquet tonight," the servant said.

"I don't care," I murmured, trying to pull my mind back into the letters on the page in front of me. The words weren't spoken with malice, but they were rude, and the silence I received from the servant said that he was not going back to Lord Falke with an answer like that. In the stressed-out mood my father was in, he might literally bite the servant's head off.

I sighed inwardly and looked up finally. The manservant was standing in front of my chair, nervously twiddling his fingers. "Milady, I don't believe your father would be pleased if I returned to him with an answer like that," he said finally.

I sighed outwardly this time, closing my book and sitting up straight. "No, I suppose he wouldn't," I agreed. "Where did he ask to meet me?"

"In the reception room," the manservant replied.

"You may tell him that I will arrive shortly," I instructed. The manservant nodded and rushed off.

I felt like just going back to my book – or better yet, returning to my room and going to sleep. I hated this time of year. Every year on my birthday, my father would make a huge celebration of the event – more extravagant than was necessary. I appreciated that he wanted to celebrate that I was growing up – and that I was born – but I hated crowds with a passion; I would have much rather preferred to spend my time with just one or two people – no more than three – and have dinner.

I also had terrible stage fright, and although I had a pretty voice, and would love to sing for the household, I was afraid someone would hear me and not like my voice. But still, knowing this, ever year my father made me get up on stage and sing a song for the crowd in celebration of my birthday. I was always spiteful to him for days afterwards; I hated every minute of it: the sweaty palms, the rapid heartbeats, the heavy breathing, the nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach and that dry taste in my mouth. I wished I could have just waved a magic wand and made it all go away. But I also hated making a scene – my father always asked it of me in front of other people – and he would request my presence on the pretence of something else. This time, he happened to pretend to ask me about the meal for the banquet. Really he just wanted me to sing.

With a sigh, I stood and straightened my green wool skirt before exiting the library, leaving my book on the table, with the page marked by a piece of paper. I would come back to it later, when I had escaped my father's wrath. This year, I promised myself I would say no; I would refuse his request, and if he tried to insist, I would play the 'mom' card.

It had been ten years since my mother, Lady Julianna, had died, when I was eight, and ever since, my father had never quite been the same. I never pushed him except when he was being an ass – and when I had to, I would say to him, "If mother were alive, she would tell you the same thing that I am telling you." And he would become as meek and mild as a feather. He would sigh and say, "You're right, my dear. You become more like her every year." Then he would play with my raven hair a little, kiss my forehead, and I would have my way.

But I hated doing that; it always put my father into a week-long depression, so I didn't do it often. But enough was enough. Throwing me to the wolves was not going to cure my stage fright, and I was most certainly NOT going to let him bully me again this year into doing what he wanted.

Arriving at the reception room, I saw Father dictating decorations to the servants, who were running about as though possessed, trying to keep up with his instructions.

"You wanted to see me, Father?" I asked, standing in front of him politely.

"Yes, my dear," he said, "I wanted to know what you thought would be best for the meal tonight: quail eggs, or frog's eggs?"

"I don't care for either, Father, so it is up to you to make that decision," I replied calmly. I actually hated most delicacies with a passion. My favourite meals were when we had just plain old meat and potatoes. But it was upon Father's insistence that all of these extra amenities were carried out.

"Hm," he thought for a moment, and then beckoned to a nearby manservant. "Tell the cook that it's quail eggs." The manservant nodded and dashed off.

"If that is everything, Father, I would very much like to return to my book," I said, curtsied, and turned to go.

"Oh, one more thing, Anna," Father began again, stopping me in my tracks. "I'd very much appreciate it if you would serenade your old father tonight at the celebration. You know how much happiness it gives me to hear you sing."

I steeled myself and took a deep breath. "No, Father, I won't," I said.

He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at me. "Why ever not?" He asked.

I lowered my voice so the rushing servants would not hear so well. "Because every year you try to cure me of my stage fright by pretending that you love hearing me sing, and throwing me onto that dais, just so I can make a fool of myself, and I'm tired of it!" I declared in a whisper. "And if Mother were here, she would agree with me, and tell you exactly what I'm telling you now: it's not working. I'm just as much – if not more – terrified of public speaking, and being in front of crowds."

Lord Falke just looked at me for a moment. "If your mother were alive – God rest her soul – she would tell you to stop using her as an excuse to ignore your duties," he replied.

I was stunned. Usually he just gave in. But now that I had started, I couldn't back down, or I would forever become a pushover. "Well, I seriously doubt that she would categorize being scared to death a duty," I retorted, sarcasm rippling through my words.

"Fear is a part of many duties in my job, Anna," Father replied, "and it's time that you took on more responsibilities. You're eighteen years old now; you're no longer a child, and as such, it's time that you grew up."

"Perhaps I could grow up if you'd let me make my own decisions once in a while," I hissed, venom now dripping from my words. My tone was dangerous – I did not get mad often, but when I did, all the servants ran for cover, for fear I would throw something in some random direction and hit one of them over the head with it – it happened once before and none of the servants had ever forgot.

Father sighed. "I had hoped to keep it a surprise," he said, "but you hate surprises."

My expression changed. "What?" I asked, feeling confused and a little bit anxious – my anger was forgotten for the moment.

"Anna, my darling, I am engaged," he announced, without preamble

I just about swallowed my tongue. "Engaged?" I repeated, barely able to get the word out. "What do you mean? Like, engaged? As in, to be married?" My brow furrowed and I looked at him quizzically, as though the concept would never have occurred to me in a million years - because it wouldn't have.

"Yes, my dear, engaged to be married," he replied gently.

"To whom? And how come I didn't even know you were courting a lady?" I demanded.

"Her name is Lady Bethany, and I didn't want to jinx the relationship until I knew for certain that she returned my feelings of affection," he explained.

"But I thought you loved Mother," I said, confused still.

"And I always will love your mother," he reassured me. "But she has been gone for many years now. You are growing up and very soon some handsome young suitor will whisk you off your feet and you'll get married and leave home. Despite all these servants, I shall be very lonely without a companion beside me. Lady Bethany is a lovely woman, who lost her husband a year ago. I'm sure you and she will get along swimmingly."

I took a deep breath. "Okay," I said slowly, drawing out the word, "but what does that have to do with you wanting me to sing tonight?"

"She'll be at the celebration, and as a welcome, I thought you would sing," he replied.

The fiend! He was using this fiancée gimmick as an excuse just to get me to sing. Well, I wouldn't give in. "No, Father," I said sternly. "I will not let you weasel me into doing this. I don't refuse much that you ask of me, but I'm done singing – forever. If you want to hear a song, ask your new wife-to-be!" With those words, I whirled around and stormed away. Instead of returning to the library, though, I instead went to my room. Once the door was closed, I stomped and jumped up and down like a child in my frustration. I picked up the wooden vase I kept by my bed and threw it at the wall. I missed, and it sailed through the window, sending shards of glass raining down on whoever might be standing underneath it.

Suddenly worried that I'd hurt someone, I ran to the window, my shoes protecting me from any glass that might have landed on my carpet. There was, thankfully, no one below my window. But staring out the window at the wood beyond, I began to daydream, my anger at my father's insistence forgotten.

I daydreamed that I'd gone off on an adventure, and I came home to find Father staring at some faceless woman, beaming at her with love in his eyes. I sighed and shook myself to rid the image from my mind. Who would this new woman be? Would she love Father? Would Father love her? More than he had loved my mother? More than he loved me?

I was worried about losing my father, but I knew that he deserved company – and he was right. Now that I was eighteen, one of the many men that often visited our estate – knights, scholars, men of intelligence and bravery – would want to marry me, and take me away from my father, to live with them. That would make sense, if I married. But right now, I wasn't even sure that I wanted to get married.

I sighed and checking the position of the sun, saw that it was close to the time when I would have to go down and greet the arriving guests. I shuddered and decided to get myself cleaned up first. If I was going to make a fool of myself, I at least wanted to do it wearing something suitable.

Rifling through my wardrobe, I found nothing special that I really wanted to wear. I decided to start with everything else first, and then find a dress, as I was running out of time. I sat at my dressing table, with the different pots and brushes for makeup, and sighed. I had a smooth complexion, with few blemishes – which was nice, except for the fact that it was one of the reasons why the other young noblewomen didn't like me. I wished for a pimpled face that needed creams to cover up the blemishes.

I grabbed my brush and starting working through the tangled mess that my hair had become. It was finer than one might think with thick hair, which meant that I had to be careful when working through the knots; it could easily tear the hair and I'd end up with big clumps of black in my brush; not very attractive to have holes in your head, either – though it was never that drastic a problem, my insecurities made it out to be that bad.

My hair brushed, I rapidly braided it – trying desperately to be neat about it – and piled it on top of my head, using pins to hold it in place. Satisfied with the result, I picked out a pair of earrings – though I didn't put them on right away – and a necklace. Both were very basic pieces – I wasn't big on lots of gaudy jewellery like some of the other young noblewomen; it didn't flatter me at iall/i, and I wasn't going to give the other girls more ammunition to hate me.

I stood again then and started searching my wardrobe again for a suitable dress. But every single one was something I'd worn to one dinner or another – and at least ten of the girls who were going to be there that night would have seen me in all of these dresses, as Father enjoyed getting us invited to all the important dinners and celebrations. He'd have died if he'd been invited to the Prince's birthday. But he was quite important enough for that just yet.

Frustrated, I stormed out of my room and decided to go looking in Father's room. As strange as it might've sounded to anyone who would have asked where I was going, it made perfect sense to me. Father and Mother had shared a room until the day Mother had died; he still kept some of her clothing in their closet. As I thought this, I realize this might be the last night that my mother's dresses resided there. Determined not to let them be worn by this new intruder, I decided I'd take them all back with me to my room.

The task was more daunting than I had expected. There were at least half a dozen of Mother's good dresses – ones I desperately wanted to save – and another half-dozen of her every-day dresses. I sighed and grabbed two or three at a time, making about four or five trips before I finally had the lot of them in my room. I was surprised that Father hadn't already cleared them away in preparation for Lady Bethany's arrival, but I supposed that she might not sleep in the same bed as him every night. After all, he often spoke of how Mother had been his first and truest love, and he would never love another woman the same way. He said he loved me just as dearly, but of course in a father-daughter way, not a husband-wife way.

Thinking of husbands as I lay Mother's best gowns on my bed, I realized that Father might mean for me to find a husband – or at least a proper suitor – at the celebration. I shook my head, and the rest of me shook along with it. The idea was petrifying. I could dance well enough, but not in front of people, and a possible suitor would definitely ask me to dance. I would have to accept, because it was the polite thing to do, and then I would fall down almost immediately in my nervousness. I was awkward and thought a simpleton in crowds – though there were a few of the other noble men and women who remember me being somewhat intelligent when I spoke to them one-on-one. I prayed that if any man asked me to dance, he would not ridicule me for my clumsiness.

I tried to push the thoughts from my mind as I chose one of Mother's dresses to wear. I was just the right size to fit them, and I was pleased with this; it was as though having a whole new wardrobe.

I settled on a simple light blue gown that felt like silk when it settled onto my shoulders, but was soft and warm as wool – which was nice, because it was getting cooler in mid-October. The necklace was rounded, showing off my collarbone, and it was high enough that it made the necklace unnecessary. I instead decided to capture all but a strand or two of my hair into a pearl-beaded hairnet. The pearls in the net matched perfectly those on the cream-coloured, beaded sash that sat on my hips, at the waistline of the dress. The sash was sewn into the side of the gown, but because of the way it wound around my waist, it looked like it had just been added on for the perfect touch. The ends came together in a tidy, discreet knot on my left side, and hung down to about my knee. I decided to wear a pair of simple cream-coloured shoes to match the sash – though the dress was long enough that my feet were almost completely obscured.

I stood in front of the mirror, admiring my reflection. I had a very light sprinkling of freckles across my nose, but every day they faded more and more – with my age, I assumed. They were the feature on my face I disliked the most, as they made me look childish and almost infantile. But with the way my hair was done up, and how the dress looked on me, I felt like the 18 year-old woman I was. I smiled, and saw my green eyes twinkle. My brow furrowed though when I peered at my coif and carefully extracted a strand of my curly black hair to frame my face. That done, I gave myself another once over and then declared myself perfect. The earrings I had chosen were, though simple, too much for the dress. I instead chose a pair of pearl earrings – one pearl in each earring – that added just the right touch.

Checking the time, I realized I was almost late. Hurriedly, I slipped into my shoes and hustled myself out of my room and down the hall, to peer over the stair balustrade at the large crowd in the gather hall. My palms began to sweat, and I reminded myself not to wipe them on Mother's lovely dress.

"Milady?" A whisper echoed behind me, and I whirled around to see a manservant standing there with a tray of drinks. He offered one to me. "For courage, perhaps?"

The last thing I needed was to be liquored up, but I desperately needed courage, so I ignored my little voice and grabbed one, drinking it all at once. It had a sweet taste, with a strange after-taste. I'd never had wine before, much less white wine, and it sent tingly sensations all the way down to my toes. I felt a little better; more relaxed. But I was still nervous.

"Thank you," I said gratefully, placing the glass back on the tray. I saw from the corner of my eye as he hid it behind a potted plant and rearranged the goblets so that they looked like they hadn't been disturbed. I smiled a little to myself.

I took a deep breath and tried to relax my muscles. I spotted Father, holding the hand of a woman. I couldn't see her face, but I assumed she was Lady Bethany, his new fiancée. I didn't like her. She seemed to stand with a kind of arrogance that said she thought herself better than everyone else around her. The way she possessively put her hand on Father's shoulder made me jealous. He was imy/i father, and I was here first! How dare she! But I stopped myself. I knew what would happen if I went down there in that frame of mind. I thought that perhaps I had a little more courage now than I wanted.

Looking back down at him, I noticed Father looking around. He was obviously searching for me. He better not have promised that I'd sing, I thought, or I'll tear a strip out of him, no matter who is looking. I was not afraid when I was angry.

Steeling myself for the coming humiliation that I knew was at hand, I stepped onto the stairs and began to make the descent into the crowd of people that was my literal hell on earth.


End file.
